


Wire/Wax

by SomeSunnyDay



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Because what else is new honestly, Internal Conflict, Scriabin has hurt feelings, and eats Edgar's food because he can, uh- he's also very stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24085414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeSunnyDay/pseuds/SomeSunnyDay
Summary: Time to get up.(Zarla-Verse fic)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Wire/Wax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zarla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/gifts).



> Basing this on how I usually come out of dissociation. I've never had a hangover before but I'd imagine Scriabin would've already up chucked everything before he passed out.
> 
> This is set sometime after they both meet Devi and when Edgar can still think somewhat clearly.

Scriabin opened his eyes, well, Edgar's specifically. He knows this because Edgar's vision is worse than his own. Great.

Edgar wasn't very conscious yet. Scriabin sits up with a feeling he's going to have a slow day. That may be because he drank a bottle of vodka in hopes to stop thinking for a bit, which worked, except the whole fuck of a headache now.

He rubbed his face and felt around for the glasses he knew wouldn't feel the same. Oh fucking well he guessed. He didn't like to open his eyes fully anyways. He put them on, they were cold and that didn't help his general discomfort. He sighed, got up, and stumbled.

"Fuck.." he said, kind of like a 'whoops.'

He looked at the desk he was holding onto. It was still awkward physically registering being able to touch things. His senses were on full blast right now, probably why he can feel every small bit of himself. Like an A/C unit getting refilled too much. Everything was itchy and cold.

He sniffed and his neck was colder than it should be. He needed a shirt. He's used to his hair, he's going to shout if he can't fucking stop wishing he had it. He doesn't like this face he's wearing. Even though his is literally just about the same, but it was  _ his _ damnit.

He sighed, calmed himself down,  _ where does Edgar keep his fucking aspirin. _

After a good 20 minutes rummaging through the bathroom, he found a bottle and he almost just put a bunch in his hand before he had to stop himself.

"No..wait- fuck." He read the side of the bottle, alright- so two tablets, not five. Yeah, that sounded about right, he didn't actually want to OD right now.

He slowly walked out of the bathroom for a drink, because Edgar has a shit gag reflex and he could never take anything dry.

Looking through the fridge, he noticed that girl's handwriting immediately.

_ Della?..no..uh..Delphine?- no wait- Devi. _

He looked at the tupperware and raised his eyebrows, squinting, still trying to mentally process the writing, why couldn't it be in marker? Marker was easier to read. He picked up the container and blinked at it.

_ 'Hey, I made you tamales. Grandma's recipe, eat them when you can. But please actually eat them, don't let them sit. You need a better diet. - Devi.' _

"..Better diet..?" Scriabin waited for a response from Edgar, probably about not eating  _ his  _ food, even though it's going the same place anyways. There was nothing.

Scriabin put the tupper on the counter and sat on the kitchen floor, best to do this sitting down.

"Alright.." he sighed and focused on Edgar, begrudgingly.

Edgar was in a dream. Because of course he was. Scriabin wanted to jostle him out so he could eat but..

It was nice having his thoughts a low hum instead of a loud whirr. Edgar was where he felt comfortable, and if that left Scriabin in relative silence? Hell, he'd be fucked over if he didn't take it. He could still hear Edgar, faintly, but it was a lot easier to block out.

He opened his eyes and sighed, so here goes a somewhat solitary morning. That felt weird to him. Solitary.

He got up and popped his knees, maybe sitting like that wasn't the best. Eh, whatever.

Scriabin would force him to pay attention to him later, he took a drink of orange juice and downed the aspirin. He sighed, there was a container of tamales to eat. He looked down at the 5 in there, maybe he could eat just two and let Edgar have the rest. He'd be down his throat if he ate  _ all  _ of them. With the headache he has right now it would be a stellar experience, surely. He pushed up the glasses and eventually just took them off to rub his temples.

Edgar has bills to pay today.

He has things to tend to.

All of which can be done without Scriabin. Which, in hindsight, kind of hurt. He was so impermanent. That made him angry. Why couldn't he be a more standing fixture? He was important too! Edgar barely found him to be, and that stung, but he knows his worth, Edgar does not. He knows his worth and he wants,  _ demands _ , Edgar to see that.

He's saved his ass so many times and this is the thanks he gets. But of course that's what happens. He's too weak to lift a finger, even when animals are eating him alive.

When Scriabin feels the fork bend in his hand he steps away from his thoughts.

He bends it back and goes over to the microwave. He can feel his breathing. He can feel the heartbeat in his face. He's tired again. He puts in the tamales and heats them up.

After he puts them on a plate, puts the rest away, he sits down with TV. Ok, so this was nice.

But it was quiet. He ate and didn't hear anything different from Edgar. He must be staying in his dreams until the hangover passes. Scriabin pushed up the glasses and looked over to the front door. He could get up and walk out. He could get up and do whatever he wanted.

But Edgar has things to do today.

He's  _ this _ fucking close to just walking out in nothing but a shirt and boxers. Why can't he get up to do it though? He looks down to the plate of half eaten tamales. He tightens his grip on the plate. He can feel everything and he  _ hates _ it. 

He can feel the exact moment when Edgar gets up.

He can feel the exact moment when Edgar surfaces.

He can feel everything and it's horribly uncomfortable.

" _ Good morning _ ."

Scriabin knows Edgar wants to switch spots, but he doesn't want to, even though he's about ready to have a sensory overload.

"Hm."

His mouth isn't cooperating, and if Edgar gets on him about that-

" _ Hey..calm down. Just finish eating and we can get ready to go to town. _ "

He was calm! He was fine, his organs were slimy and his skin felt like wax, but that was fine.

" _ I can kind of tell you're uncomfortable about something. _ "

He opens his mouth slightly. He speaks, he hates it. He doesn't sound right.

"No shit Sherlock."

" _ Why do you always have to be defensive? I'm calm but you're always wound up- why can't you just be civil for once? _ "

Scriabin looks at the fork. He wants to fucking stab his thigh. He lifts his arm-

He can feel himself being shoved out of physicality. He wants to yell and kick at Edgar for doing that- he did nothing wrong!

"Scriabin!" Edgar jolts and the fork is dropped.

" _ Why the fuck did you do that? _ "

Edgar clutched his chest, "You were going to stab me!"

Scriabin fell silent. He actually..lifted his arm? He thought that he thought about it- he..it was getting harder to differentiate in depth thought and action again.

" _ Well I wouldn't have done that if you would've stopped getting on my ass. _ "

That was a lie, to which, he didn't actually mean to make. Compulsory. Shit. It was kind of important for Edgar to know the thought processes weren't clear cut right now, he may find himself in an issue if he doesn't know.

"Oh wow. Ok, leave it to you to make everything difficult."

But apparently he was being difficult so that could wait he supposed. Scriabin sat back, he knew Edgar was just shocked and waking up, his tone wasn't what his thoughts were conveying. Which was rude because he can just come out and say it without the passive aggressive comments. What the Hell? Why does he have to do that? He wants to go lay down again. He feels like he ate a raw set of wires still plugged into the wall. Vibrating numbness.

Edgar pinches his nose and pushes his glasses up, "Ok."  _ Let's calm down. _

He looked over to the plate and was about to comment but he thought better, at least he ate and didn't go straight to drinking again.

"Thank you for eating first." Best to concede here, because it can always be worse.

Scriabin sat back and felt his face absently, he recognized this, it was familiar. Ok, he was fine. He played with his hair as he asked quietly, " _ What do we have to do today..? _ "

Edgar started to eat the tamales when he wiped off the fork. As he changed the channels he spoke between bites, "I have to pay the water and electricity bill, then go up to do security finance stuff, go to the store and get more milk, and go to the atm so I can have cash on me. You up for that?"

Edgar asked this, and Scriabin knew it wasn't condescending but he couldn't help but poke at him about it.

" _ Of course I am, I'm not as old as you dear boy, remember? _ " He bit that one out and he could hear Edgar's thoughts, confused and slightly miffed,  _ good _ ,  _ back to normal. _

"Y'know I don't even-..I can't even have a decent conversation with you."

" _ Of course not. _ "

Edgar cleared his plate and got up to wash it. Today was going to be interesting.


End file.
